Filth-Healer

That was it. K didn’t want him outtie. K wanted a fair chance at the game of life.
Tim put a hand to one stubbly cheek, brushing his thumbpad under the glazed eye. He felt the row of teeth, so undeniably English yet so well-cared for; Tim’s grip tightened and he squeezed. He could feel the dimpled-in place where a previous bothersome tooth had been removed. The reaction was slow, yes, but there was a reaction.
Raymond’s face puckered up with slow-dawning pain, and then he pulled his head away, staring at Tim. Autopsy scars and emotionless eyes. That’s when the horror opened its mouth. There was no stench of the grave, per se, but Tim recoiled back as if an invisible lion roared out at him. Then, after working his jaw for some time, the thing that posed as Raymond uttered a completely nonsense garble.
“Iiieeluvvh’ah’oooo’iiimm…”
Then, the thing tried to smile; its tendons screamed like rusty-hinges as its jaws worked, its black lips peeling back from the row of teeth. A loose funhouse grimace hung in the air before Tim’s own face. He stared, heart jack-hammering in his throat, then he fled from the room.

“Sascha. What. Meaning. This! That!”
Sascha glanced up from both of his hands, eyes curious. His gentle blue eyes were somewhat confused, completely inquisitive but sans a single flash of guilt.
“English, Tim.”
Tim inhaled, glanced once over his shoulder, then asked in a low hiss, “Sascha. What in the name of God did you do?”
There was nothing for a long time, then a knife-sharp grin consumed half of Sascha’s face as he chuckled darkly. “Don’t you like it?”
The urge to hit the German was so very, very strong, but Tim merely looked back down the hall, feeling sudden eyes boring between his shoulder blades. Raymond was standing there, vacant eyes unfocused, hands dangly limply at his sides. The sallow overhead lamp lit him from above, giving his already grey-pale skin an unflattering wan tint. He was like meat on display.
“That,” Tim hissed, leaning closer, “Explain that.”
Sascha gave a small, significant smile, then looked over Tim’s shoulder and smirked at the imbecile Raymond.
“Isn’t that what you wanted? To live happily ever after?”
“That isn’t living. He isn’t living.” Tim’s whisper became an acidic, snakelike hissing.
“Oh, but isn’t he?” Sascha looked to the thing that answered to Raymond; it was dressed in loose leather slacks, without a shirt. Scars wrinkled his exposed torso, but more disturbing than the cuts and scrapes of his death, was the incision marks from the autopsy where the dead innards and remains were dumped back into their cold cradle of meat and bone. A large ornate cross rested over the long vertical slash from sternum to stomach. He resembled a dim-witted double that could be used in a music video. His black hair oiled around his shoulders; there was a patch missing in the back Tim and Sascha both knew. His brain had to be reinserted into the cranial cavity after that little highway doughnut. Suggestion was closed casket; they all had to see him again before planting him, though. The work done on him was amazing; the doctors had taken extra time to bathe and wash the corpse properly, though they had to reconstruct most of him.
Tim couldn’t imagine that dead flesh touching his. Why wasn’t he running out of the house, screaming-mad? Somehow, it felt right. It felt expected to see Raymond shambling down the driveway less than a week after his proper burial and services.
“There are no future intimate settings with that thing, Sascha. I can’t…” Tim shuddered a bit.
“Why can’t you?”
“That. That thing isn’t Raymond.”
“Isn’t it? It sure looks like him, he answers to his name. I think it is. Watch.” Sascha leaned over a bit, one arm cocked to the back of the sofa, “Raymond. Come here please.”
Tim stared, as did Sascha. Minutes passed. Slowly, the horror turned towards them; he took one shaky step before Tim hissed, “Abomination.”
“Iii’uuuvvvaahh’oooiiimmm…” the Raymond-thing reached out, arms wrapping around the smaller man’s chest. Tim’s blue eyes met that of the hazy green opposite his and he saw plainly that Raymond was gone. Whatever replaced him looked like hell run over twice, with all intelligence blown away. As if passing to the other side, be there one or not, had weakened, taken away all musician smarts. Then it tried to smile again, it was a broken parody of the previously shy grin. It was appalling to watch the thing struggle with nerve-endings no longer working properly.
“Tim,” Sascha said, “Hug him back.”
Gradually, Tim brought up his arms, but he could not force then around the piece of artificial life. It was like hugging packaged hamburger.
“Iiie’uh’ooim.” the thing cooed again, nuzzling up under Tim’s chin and jaw line. It planted a crawling kiss there and Tim felt something snake up his spine. Horror. Disgust. He was so deeply revolted that he felt even the sensitive underside of his testicles crawl; he was shooting Sascha honed glares as the latter shuffled into the kitchen.
“Sascha. What have you done?”
“Nothing you didn’t want.”
Tim was left alone, the grey-skinned creature still clinging. It was then he realized only he took audible breath.

This time the voice did not issue from the closet as it had on previous occasions. This time the dry-rattle-hiss issued from under the bed.
“’Im’atesme.”
Tim lay on top of the blankets, arms under the back of his head. He was staring at the ceiling fan as it sliced lazily through the yellow air. A permanent haze hung over the city, or just within limits. It seemed to hold its own light, have its own glow.
“Damn right I do.”
Days previous Tim had finally given in to some form of carnal lust and had his way with the lax body under him. After that, when they lay stomach to back, Tim swore never to consider that act again. He had ordered that the thing either lay in the closet or in the hall, out of sight and out of mind. Mostly, out of contact. As he lay next to the cold body, thoughts raced through his head at dizzying speeds. What he had done was wrong, sure. But what Sascha had done was somehow more demented. Somehow more twisted, more…
“’Im’atesme.”
“Damn right I do.”
There was a shift under the bed, then the shadow of the creature slunk out. It slowly looked up and over the edge of the bed, discoloured eyes landing on Tim’s ribcage, then trailing up to the man’s face, “…iiee?”
Tim inhaled, then said, “Because. I just do. Now leave me alone.”
Raymond sat on the floor for a few more minutes, staring at Tim to see if the sudden harsh tone was a joke. It didn’t appear so; he crawled back under the bed, shifting about to get comfortable.
“And what have I told you about living there? Go live in the closet, or in the hall. You’re too close to me. Get away.” Said Tim.
More shifting as it pulled itself out from under the bed, crawling over to the closet door. It glanced up to the doorknob, and kneeled to open the closet. The door swung sluggishly forward, exposing the blackness inside.
“S’dark.”
“I don’t give a fuck, get in there.”
Raymond shook his head.
“Then go live in the hallway. Just, get away from me.”
It crawled across the room to the door, then opened that one too. It was relatively good at opening and closing doors. It glanced out and said to Tim, “’Chee out there.” ‘Chee’ was the name given to Sascha, since Raymond’s mouth refused to pronounce ‘Saschie’.
“So? Fucking go and sleep on the couch.”
“…’im’atesme…”
“Oh let’s fuck the ‘you hate me’ bullshit, we both know I hate you. Now get out.” Tim sat up, hugging one knee. “Get out, or I’ll give you something to whine about.” He lifted one fist, and since both knew he was true to the word, Raymond hurried out. Tim laid back down, closed his eyes, then listened to Raymond’s shuffling progress down the hall; it slowed to an audible crawl, then it moved into the kitchen area.
Hell he doing? Tim sat, propping himself up on both his elbows. His head canted to one side as he tried to pinpoint the exact location of the creature. He couldn’t even consider it fully human---nor with an actual gender. Tim could call it by name, it would respond with either action or a semi-coherent sigh of broken English. Hadn’t they all been warned about the house before moving in? More so about the surrounding area: it was a weird place. The city was odd. When (and if) Tim would visit a friend outside the actual area of his residence, the ashamed and uttered name of his home brought on nonplussed expressions, kindly confused smiles and simple gestures. Smile. Shrug. Move on in the conversation. The city itself also seemed desolate. No call for sudden sidewalk sales in this area. Hardly a person was seen walking. It Tim dared to go out at night, the haze seemed to thicken and become a vile fog, reducing other figures (if any) to sudden ink blots in the yellow. It was surreal, location and label-wise. This small place of non-existence. A ghost town. A tainted city. A place…
“Tim! Clean up your happy ending, here.”
He snapped awake, suddenly feeling disoriented and out of sorts. His body felt oddly sprawled, seemingly sliding backwards at an angle.
“Wha?” he rolled off the bed, blinking owlishly; he barked his leg against the bed and cursed as he made his way out of the room.
The kitchen was a mess. A mess was putting it lightly; all the cabinets were open at floor level, and all the contents were strewn about. Over the counter cupboards were pulled open, items littered the countertops and the stove. Boxes of cereal; packages of noodles and various other food items covered the floor and the table like scattered artefacts of a long-dead culture. Should you pardon the pun applied.
Raymond was huddled under the table, over-turning Sascha’s box of poptarts and taking out rolls of aluminium-foil, staring at the reflections thrown off on the underside of the table.
“Raymond! What are you doing?”
The thing looked up, dull eyes wide; he quickly shambled out from under the table and over to a cupboard. He gave Tim a look before crawling inside it and curling up, knees under his chin. A voice snickered from behind Tim. It was Sascha, arms folded over his chest, eyes dancing.
“Kinda cute, id’nt he?” Sascha’s sudden laughter died first from his eyes, then dried on his lips, which curled away to show his teeth, “Take care of your happy ending, Tim.” He stalked out of the room.
Tim looked to the mess, then frowned. He could see Raymond’s eyes track his every move as he started to clean up the mess made; when he began to put the poptarts back into the box, a cold hand closed over his. He jumped, nearly being jolted back a pace by the surprise of it. He looked up into the dull, clouded green eyes, still frowning, “What, Raymond?”
“I help.” it supplied, head cocked to the side, face somewhat curious.
“Help, sure, fine. You want to help, Raymond?” Tim’s own voice was curt, “You want to help, you little worthless fuck?”
Raymond nodded slowly, unblinking.
“Then fucking amaze me, Raymond. Do something amazing to help me out. You getting me? I want to be jaw-on-the-floor amazed by an act you do.” Tim’s hand brushed the other one off of his.

It was two in the afternoon. The haze had lifted, if only for a few hours. Tim was away to a friend’s house for the day; he said he had some important business to attend to concerning his social life. Sascha was loafing on the sofa, when he heard the telltale scuffle-crash of Raymond knocking something over.
“That little cunt,” Sascha stood up, cracked his spine, and went down the hall to see what the thing was up to. It wasn’t anywhere to be found in the bedrooms, their closets, or the bathroom tub. A bit confused, he sat back down to his television program. The same noise, then a healthy giggle-fit issued from the kitchen. Annoyed, Sascha got to his feet, stomping into the room with the noise, “The fuck you doing?”
Raymond wasn’t there. The entrance door to the kitchen was cocked open, though; the sight of it filled Sascha with a rage so strong he felt his heartrate quicken as he strode over to it, looking outside. Nothing but the dingy yard.
“Ray-Ray?” Sascha turned, shutting the door tight behind him.
And there he was, his arms behind his back as if hiding a bouquet of flowers, but what Sascha saw rising over the back of Raymond’s head made his mouth dry. A crowbar swung lazily back and forth in the air above Ray’s skull.
“Playtime.” it hissed, dull eyes no longer dull, no, they seemed to be quick. With it.
“Excuse me?” Sascha took a step back, hand grasping the doorknob.
“You heard me.” Raymond stepped forward, swinging the crowbar experimentally; it whistled through the air with cold malice. Sascha’s hand jiggled the doorknob again, finding it locked.
“You…you little shit, aheh, you, aheh, locked the door. Good one, Raymond. Now, can we talk about this? Please? Let’s talk.”
“Nothing to say…” Raymond’s face contorted with concentration as he lifted the crowbar well over his head.
“Raymond don’t!”
“Playing God…” he swung it in a low arc, connecting with Sascha’s skull. He lifted it, and brought it down. Again. Again. Again.

Tim was whistling when he kicked open the door and stepped into the house. He stopped, then noticed the initial smell. It not only smelled hot, but the air in the room was most definitely warmer.
“Ray?” he pulled off his coat and slung it onto the sofa. “Hey, Ray? Where’s Sascha?” he noted the absence on the couch, and moved down the hall. He thought better of it, then went into the kitchen, where Raymond’s bed had been switched to the cupboard by the stove.
“Ray?---…” he stared.
At first it appeared Sascha had dropped a bottle of ketchup, or maybe really dark jam, then decided to take a nap in it. First reaction was to go over and wake him up; then Tim actually saw what was done. And he screamed.
“Don’t you…like it?” it was the hiss that drew Tim’s face away from the mess on the floor. He stared at Raymond, who had seemed to undergo a subtle change. His voice was still the rattling-bones-hiss, but his posture and his expression was different now. He almost looked ashamed.
“You don’t like it.” Then the cry started up again, “’Im’atesme!” as he fled from the room, showing reaction time he did not have before. Before all this.
“Raymond!” Tim’s voice was choked, but not with anger. With actual fear. He moved quickly, first stepping over Sascha’s body, opening a utensil drawer, then trotting down the hall where Raymond had fled. The thing was curled on Tim’s bed slightly, hugging onto one of his pillows; staring blankly at the door. As if…
as if he was expecting me to follow… Tim blinked a bit, then showed him the knife. He stared ahead, either not noticing, or simply unknowing.
“Raymond.” Tim started forward, sitting on the edge of the bed, lifting the thing up to a sitting position, “Raymond, look at me.”
“You hate me…” he did look, but blood underlined his eyes. Tears of the macabre kind.
“No…” Tim put the knife to Raymond’s throat quickly, “I love you, Raymond. I really do.”
“You hate me…” it was a defeated voice, an addict that has finally admitted crushing powers.
One last time, as Tim drew the knife swiftly across, “No. I love you…”